by Betty Neels
Victoria smiled at her. ‘No, love, I know you wouldn’t, only don’t ask me any questions yet—I don’t know myself.’
Amabel said in her gentle way: ‘You’re going out again today.’
‘Well, we can’t go sailing, can we? I thought we might go and see Uncle Gardener.’
Victoria had spoken lightly, hoping with all her heart that he would come that morning and still not quite sure that he would. Breakfast seemed to take an unnecessarily long time; she had finished long before anyone else and engrossed herself in the morning’s paper, reading not a word of it while her ears strained for the sound of the door bell, and her family, with fond sympathy, listened with her even though they were all talking at once as they usually did. When the bell did at last go, she put the paper down with a slowness which didn’t deceive those around her, saying: ‘I’ll go, shall I, since I’ve finished,’ and slipped from the room.
He was very wet, although he seemed unaware of it. He cast off his rainproof jacket as he came in, caught her close and kissed her, so that rain or no rain, the world became a perfect place on the instant.
‘Come walking, dear girl?’ he asked. She moved a little way away from him because she had the absurd idea that if she stayed near to him he would hear the thudding of her heart against her ribs.
‘Yes, of course, but I wondered if you would like to come to Castle Cornet with me—the curator is an old friend of my father’s and we’ve known him all our lives. I usually go and see him when I’m home.’ She started for the stairs. ‘Everyone’s in the dining room if you like to go in.’
She was back within minutes, well wrapped against the weather, to find Alexander standing chatting to her father, seemingly oblivious of the eyes focused upon him, but once outside, walking beside her up Havelet to Hauteville, he made the remark that not only were her three sisters remarkable in their looks; their stares were even more devastating.
Victoria laughed. ‘They’re only curious about you,’ she defended them. ‘Did I hear Mother asking you back for drinks?’
He gave her a sidelong glance from his blue eyes. ‘Yes—she asked me for dinner too.’
She met his eyes and smiled a little. ‘That’ll be nice.’ They were going down the steps from Hauteville, leading them towards the Market, and he caught her hand because they were steep and slippery, but at the bottom she withdrew it gently and walked on beside him, looking sedate.
Uncle Gardener was delighted to see them. Despite the awful weather they found him on the ramparts, lovingly tending his flowers, and when Victoria introduced Alexander, he said, ‘Ah, yes—the young man in the yacht, isn’t it? We watched you…’ He shot a mischievous glance at Victoria, who frowned at him repressively. ‘We were interested in the boat—a nice thing.’ The two men started an easy, casual conversation about sailing and she strolled away, poking at the flowers and leaning over the ramparts to watch the sea boiling below. Presently they joined her. ‘Magnificent, isn’t it?’ asked Uncle Gardener. ‘Very exhilarating, but bad for my flowers. Are you much of a gardener, Doctor van Schuylen?’
The three of them leaned against the old stone wall, happily discussing bulbs and their treatment and becoming drenched with the rain. Neither of the men took any notice of the weather at all and Victoria, already wet, her hair plastered to her head under her scarf, was perfectly happy to stand between them listening, although when Mr Givaude suggested coffee she was glad to follow him through the familiar Prisoners’ Walk and round the corner to his house, where she threw off her wet things and went to the kitchen where Mrs Watts, the housekeeper, was making the coffee. She made shift to dry her hair by the fire and as it was hopeless to put it up she borrowed a shoelace from the accommodating Mrs Watts and tied her still damp hair back and went to join the men.
They were poring over charts, of which Uncle Gardener had a great many, but they got up politely when she went in, to return to them with obvious relief when she said: ‘Don’t stop whatever it is you’re doing, I’m going to sit by the fire and get my feet dry.’ She poured their coffee and carried it over to the table where they were sitting, together with some of Mrs Watts’ splendid cake, and then went back to drink her own and toast her stockinged feet by the fire’s warmth. The two men drank their coffee absentmindedly and she refilled their cups without asking them, for they were so deeply engrossed that she doubted if they would have heard her anyway. She demolished two slices of cake, drank her second cup of coffee and lulled by the quiet voices of the men and the peace of the little room, closed her eyes, to open them presently upon Alexander’s smiling face and Uncle Gardener’s slightly puzzled one.
‘Bless my soul,’ said that gentleman, ‘you’ve been to sleep, child. Do you feel all right?’
Victoria sat up. ‘Yes, of course, Uncle. It was so warm and pleasant I nodded off.’ She looked enquiringly at Alexander to see if he was ready to go, but Mr Givaude intercepted the glance and said diffidently:
‘Vicky, I wondered if you would like to stay to lunch, the two of you. There’s bound to be plenty and the truth is, Alexander and I are having a most interesting discussion.’
She smiled at his serious face. ‘I’d love to,’ she said promptly, ‘that is if Alexander hasn’t anything else…?’
She stole a quick glance at the doctor as she spoke and was reassured by his face. She picked up the coffee cups, stacked them neatly on the tray and said: ‘I’m going to see if there’s anything I can do for Mrs Watts while you finish your talk.’ She made for the door and Alexander went to open it for her, the smile on his face such that she all but danced to the kitchen.
Over lunch Uncle Gardener wanted to know when they were returning.
‘Tomorrow,’ Victoria told him. ‘It was only a weekend, you know.’ She didn’t say any more, but pressed him to some more of his own rhubarb pie, hoping that he wouldn’t comment on her reasons for coming home again when she had only just returned from a week’s holiday. He passed his plate for some more pie and addressed the doctor instead.
‘Of course you naturally wanted to meet Vicky’s parents,’ he observed, a remark which caused her to colour up delightfully—it made Alexander sound as though he were on trial; she hoped that he didn’t feel as embarrassed as she did. It seemed he didn’t.
‘That’s right,’ he agreed calmly, ‘that was my main reason for coming. I shall be rather tied up with work when I get back.’ He caught Victoria’s eyes. ‘I had other reasons for coming too,’ he added, and she had the impression that this time he was speaking to her.
They went to the cinema in the afternoon, and sat, her hand in his, watching a mighty Hollywood epic which afterwards Victoria couldn’t remember anything of, although her memory played no tricks when it came to remembering the feel of Alexander’s hand, large and gentle, holding hers.
They walked home arm in arm along the Esplanade with the unrelenting wind and rain buffeting them, talking about films and Uncle Gardener and their journey back the next day. At the door she asked if he would like to come in, but he shook his head, saying casually that he would be back around seven and bidding her so casual a farewell that her peace of mind was seriously disturbed.
The evening was a success, though, for the doctor was an amusing talker and a very good listener besides. Victoria, sitting beside her mother as they drank their coffee in the charming drawing room, was forced to admit that he was a very charming man and knew to a nicety just how much attention her three sisters expected, and it was obvious too that her parents liked him. She became a little silent, content to watch him covertly, and when from time to time he looked at her and smiled, she smiled happily back, feeling secure once more.
They started back the next morning with the family there to see them off. They stayed on deck watching Guernsey fading slowly into the grey seas and sky around them, and then walked the decks, undeterred by the rough wind and the boat’s heaving, something which didn’t impair their appetites in the least. They ate their lunch in an almost empt
y restaurant and then walked again until Weymouth harbour closed in on them.
The Mercedes was waiting for them on the quayside, something Victoria hadn’t expected, and when she mentioned it to Alexander he looked faintly surprised, as though the possibility of having to go and fetch it for himself hadn’t occurred to him. She got into the car while he paid off the garage hand who had driven it down, reflecting that he was a man who expected and obtained the best out of the material things of life while at the same time perfectly able to shift for himself should he need to. He got in beside her, eased the car away from the medley of vehicles around them and said: ‘We’ll stop for tea as soon as we get the other side of Dorchester, shall we? Wimborne, I should think. There’s a place in Cobham where we can have dinner.’
They stopped in Wimborne as he had suggested and had their tea in a pleasant, old-fashioned hotel in the little town’s square, and then drove on again, not much worried about the time, for as Victoria had explained, as long as she was on duty by half past seven in the morning nothing else mattered overmuch. All the same Alexander made good speed towards London, and it was well before eight o’clock when he slowed down in Cobham and turned into the grounds of the Fairmile Hotel. It was a pleasant country house, rather full because it was Sunday evening, but by the time she returned from seeing to her hair and face, a table had been found for them and the doctor had ordered drinks. She sat down opposite him and began diffidently: ‘It’s been a lovely weekend—thank you for taking me, Alexander,’ and was disconcerted when he replied blandly:
‘But, my dear girl, surely you know that the weekend was planned entirely to suit my own wishes? How else was I to make your family’s acquaintance?’
This remark Victoria found difficult to answer, she sipped her Dubonnet trying to look as though she had understood and failing. And it became obvious to her that he had no intention of enlightening her either, for he said with a half smile: ‘I’m going over to Holland tomorrow.’
She noticed that he didn’t tell her at what time, nor did he ask her if she would be free. ‘I’ve got a lot of work to get through in the next few weeks,’ he went on. ‘My secretary has remorselessly filled every day for me.’
She said lightly to cover her hurt: ‘She sounds a dragon, but I expect you couldn’t do without her. Have you had her long?’
‘Years—how quickly the days went, Victoria.’
She wasn’t going to let him see how she felt. ‘They always do,’ her voice was still light, ‘but I expect if we had too much free time we shouldn’t enjoy it half so much. We’re lucky at St Judd’s though, once we’re trained we get a long weekend every month as well as six weeks’ holiday.’ All of which, she thought sourly, he must already know.
‘And can you leave if and when you want to?’
‘Well, no, we have to give a month’s notice. I suppose if there were some really good reason for going, it could be arranged. I’ve never had occasion to ask. Do you plan to do any sailing in Holland?’
He didn’t answer at once, for a waiter came to take their order and there was the business of choosing what to eat. They were eating their iced melon when he said: ‘About sailing—yes, I shall spend most weekends on the Loosdrechtsche Plassen, I expect.’ And when she wanted to know where that was he explained: ‘Near Utrecht. I’ve a little house—a cottage really, on the lakeside in Loenen. It’s delightful there in the early summer before the tourists come.’
He went on to talk about the village and the river Vecht running close by and the histories of some of the old houses lining its banks, and Victoria listened to every word, treasuring them up to remember later because he was going away and he hadn’t said that he was coming back. He talked with gentle inconsequence while they ate their Aylesbury duckling, Crêpes Suzettes, and sampled the cheese board which followed, and because he didn’t seem to want to talk about themselves at all, she followed his lead and became a little gay, telling him amusing stories of hospital life. It was rather an effort even though the claret they were drinking had cheered her up a little. They lingered over coffee and it was after ten when they left the hotel and once more got into the car, and because Alexander drove fast and the London streets were almost empty she found herself outside the hospital long before she wished. She had her hand on the car door ready to get out as she embarked on her thanks; a hotch-potch of lovely dinners, heavenly weekends and good trips which he sliced off abruptly by saying mildly: ‘Don’t chatter, girl, I’m coming in.’
He got out before she could move and opened her door for her, then walked, as they had walked before, through the hospital’s entrance, past the porter in his box, along the passage to the quadrangle, to fetch up silently before the Home door, where the doctor put a purposeful hand on its handle so that she couldn’t go inside.
‘Will you miss me?’ he asked, and Victoria frowned in the dark because he had sounded so lighthearted, as though he were sure of her answer. She longed to say no, not in the least, but her treacherous tongue answered ‘Yes, of course,’ before she could stop it. She wished she had curbed it when he said ‘Good,’ in what she considered to be an odiously placid voice. Only the beginnings of a fine temper prevented her from bursting into tears when he bent down and kissed her lightly on one cheek and said: ‘Goodnight, Victoria.’ He opened the door for her then, leaving her no choice but to go through. She flounced past him, quite bewildered. ‘Goodnight,’ she managed in a voice vibrant with emotion. She didn’t look at him.
It was Sister Crow’s day off and the ward was busy in a muddled sort of way. By dinner time Victoria had dealt with three admissions, an outburst of temper on the part of the Major, a nurse with toothache which necessitated her going off duty, sundry visits from physiotherapists, Path Lab staff, social workers, not to mention Johnny Dawes and Matron, who, for some reason best known to herself, stopped and spoke to every single patient on the ward. Victoria came back from her dinner cross and a little untidy with the prospect of a long afternoon before her. She flung open the office door, having sent all but one nurse to dinner, and found Alexander sitting on the side of the desk, staring out of the window and whistling cheerfully. Delight at seeing him again when she had spent most of the night telling herself that he had disappeared for ever out of her life mingled strongly with an uprush of rage because she wasn’t looking her best and because all the awful things she had been thinking about him were probably not true after all. She crashed the door to with a fine disregard for the notice on it requesting quiet at all times, and said loudly: ‘Well, what a surprise!’
Alexander had got off the desk to lean against it, his hands in his pockets, his face bland, although his blue eyes were studying her keenly.
‘You’re surprised,’ he observed, and she saw with annoyance that he was quite unimpressed by her strong feelings. ‘I can’t think why,’ he went on reasonably. ‘I didn’t say goodbye to you—you surely didn’t think that I would go away without doing that?’
She stayed where she was by the door, chained by bad temper. ‘You didn’t say you were going to…’
He smiled then and stood up straight, towering over her in the small room. ‘I have to go,’ he said, ‘and perhaps it’s a good thing, for I see that you are in no mood to while away an idle moment. Had a bad morning?’ He grinned suddenly. ‘Your hair’s coming down,’ he observed cheerfully. ‘I won’t keep you, then you’ll have time to do something to it before you start your afternoon.’
He had come very close to put his hands on her shoulders. ‘Dear girl,’ his voice was gentle and very understanding of her black mood, ‘I shall come back, quite soon, remember that.’ She saw the gleam in his eyes as he bent his head to kiss her, with most satisfying thoroughness, on her mouth.
He had gone before she had time to say anything. She sat down at the desk, making no attempt to tidy herself, going over his words several times, as though by doing so she could make more of them. Presently she sighed and smiled and went to the small mirror on the wall and ma
de shift to pin up her hair under her cap, before going into the ward to see what the nurse there was about.
The days were empty after he had gone; even the arrival of more flowers—red roses in an overwhelming abundance this time—did nothing to help matters. The week toiled to its close with its admissions of new patients, its discharges of old ones; Sir Keith Plummer’s stately rounds and Johnny Dawes’ harassed ones because Doctor Blake was on holiday, and always the daily round of medicines, treatment, injections and bedmaking, interlarded with the checking of laundry. A dull week, thought Victoria, glad to see it go, despite her pleasant day off with Uncle Gardener’s sister, a widowed lady of formidable appearance and the disposition of a lamb, who lived in a severe-looking terrace house in Pimlico.
The house was as deceiving in its appearance as its owner, for once inside, it revealed a pleasant, somewhat shabby comfort, a very small, well-kept garden at the back and a semi-basement kitchen, which for all its inconvenience was extremely cosy. Martha, Mrs Johnson’s house-hold help, spent her days there, cooking delicious food which Victoria did full justice to when she visited her friend. She had spent some time there when she had gone that week, sitting on the kitchen table, sampling Martha’s little cakes while she evaded the sharp questions her hostess put to her. Uncle Gardener, it seemed, had written to his sister and told her all about Alexander. Victoria had parried the questions with vague answers which she could see didn’t satisfy either of her elderly listeners in the least; she was forced to bring the interrogation to a close by declaring that she was starving, a plea which served as a good red herring and forced her to eat an enormous meal which she didn’t really want, because Mrs Johnson declared that she had no doubt that Victoria never had quite enough to eat in hospital, ‘Although,’ she added cunningly, ‘I daresay that nice doctor takes you out and gives you a good meal whenever he can.’
‘We went out once or twice,’ admitted Victoria, spooning up Martha’s delicious onion soup, ‘but he’s left England now, you know. I daresay we shan’t see each other again.’ She spoke with a careless lightheartedness which she felt sure would deceive her listeners. Mrs Johnson’s only comment was: ‘That’s as may be, Vicky dear,’ and pressed her to a mouth-watering portion of Martha’s steak and kidney pudding. Alexander wasn’t mentioned for the whole of the rest of the day, but Victoria had been very conscious of his ghostly bulk in the little house.